


Seeing Round Corners

by redfiona



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Age Play, Community: 50kinkyways, Hand Job, M/M, Prompt Fic, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-03
Updated: 2010-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfiona/pseuds/redfiona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since caning obviously didn't work on his disobedient pupil, Mr. Flair tries something different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Round Corners

**Author's Note:**

> For the 50 Kinky Ways challenge, prompt number 20 - standing in a corner. Follows on from [Please, Sir](http://archiveofourown.org/works/67178) but reading that isn't required to understand what is going on in this.

He'd been standing in the corner for what had to have been a quarter of an hour now, and he was getting bored. After last time it had been easy enough for Ric to talk him into this game again, because that had been fun.

This time was not fun at all. The only thing that had happened in this second detention so far was that Mr. Flair, having decided that caning didn't work on him, had thought up another punishment. He'd been told to stand in the corner of the classroom, facing the wall, for an hour. That was it. And if he moved, or spoke, or did anything that his teacher hadn't given him permission to do, there'd be an extra five minutes added on to his punishment.

Fifteen minutes. He could have done a lot in fifteen minutes. He could have done some more lifts in the gym. He hadn't cut his routine short or anything, Ric would have killed him if he had, but more was always better.

He could have gone over tonight's match again. He could have done his homework. He could be home playing computer games.

All of the above would have been better than just standing there. Except maybe, possibly, the homework.

So bored.

Unfortunately the only thing coming to mind were rap songs, which made him want to tap his feet, which was forbidden, or tap his hands on his thighs, also forbidden, or rap along to the tune in his head, which was not only forbidden, but saying some of the words in the lyrics would probably have kept him in detention till he was sixty. It would have been do-able, if the detentions had gone as well as last time, but he didn't think he could do this again.

So very bored.

He needed to get a grip. People did not die of boredom. They didn't even go insane. Not in an hour anyway. He needed to keep himself occupied. Okay, go over the match in his head. It was like homework, in a way.

He thought he had it sorted, until that lock escape at the end. He could do with going over that again. He should probably grab John and run through it later, after detention was over.

Still, there was a limit to how often you could go over anything, and Randy thought he'd reached his after the tenth time of running through the match. He was now reduced to counting the number of discoloured spots on the wall that he was facing. As his eyes moved higher, carefully of course, he didn't want his time in the corner extending because Mr. Flair noticed his head tipping back; he saw that there was a mirror in the corner. It was like those mirrors in shops, the ones in the corners so they could catch you shop-lifting, only instead of a shopkeeper being able to see him, he had to assume that it was for the teacher to keep tabs on him. It also had the opposite effect; he could keep an eye on his teacher from here. He'd certainly get more use out of it than Mr. Flair who wasn't even looking in this direction. His attention seemed to be entirely caught up in the magazine he was reading. At this angle Randy couldn't make out what magazine it was that was so damn interesting.

His teacher shifted in his seat, raising the magazine enough so that Randy could read what it was. It was Playboy, and he was reasonably sure it was Torrie's issue, the first one, not that he had an autographed copy of it or anything. Mr. Flair turned as though he were going to check in the mirror to see that Randy wasn't looking at him so Randy cast his eyes down. He counted to thirty before he looked up again. Sure enough, it was the May 2003 edition.

That meant he could spend at least five minutes trying to remember the contents of that issue. It turned out to be an enjoyable seven minutes, mostly because he kept getting Torrie's two editions confused. It was while he was contemplating the possibly brown hair girl who was the page behind Torrie that he noticed the sound.

It was like someone trying to snuff out a cough in a handkerchief. His eyes moved back to the mirror. Sure enough, one of Mr. Flair's hands had disappeared "mysteriously" under his cape, and the tiny noise that was being covered up had come from him.

The other hand was gripping the magazine tightly, bunching it up in the middle. What to do now? 'Cause, what he had planned was risky, and would, if he did it badly, either lead to his sentence in the corner being extended, or even worse, the end of his detentions.

"Sir?"

There was a sharp intake of breath and Mr. Flair glared at him, probably for the interuption rather than for breaking his time out, judging by just how put out he was.

"What is it, Orton?"

"Sir, don't you think I could be using this time more ... um ... constructively?"

"Orton, you are not leaving this detention before the hour is up."

"Oh, I didn't want to leave, sir,"

"You'd be the only student ever who didn't want to leave a detention early."

"I accept that I need to be punished for the problems I've caused you. But I'd like to help you." So far, so good, most of the rage had gone out of Mr. Flair's eyes. Now, for part two. "I could be ever so useful. I could help you tidy up, clean the classroom. Anything you want."

The hand gripped the magazine more tightly. Randy tried to flirt and tease the way the kid he wasn't anymore would have done, but it was so difficult because he was already imagining what would happen next. He'd get the magazine out of Ric's hands somehow and then get under the cape and blow him maybe, or maybe just a hand-job, only if he was the kid he was playing, then he wouldn't know how to do that straight away. He'd be off-balance as he knelt down, because what teenage boy had balance, and there's be fumbling, thankfully not with belts. He'd hated belts when he was that age, trying to make it with a girl and then having to take a break because of some nonsense with a belt.

"Please, let me help you, sir." Having knelt down, Randy ran his hand down Ric's arm, following it down, through the folds of the cape. He gasped a little when he found Mr. Flair's dick. If he were this kid, it would be shocking, because teachers are like your parents, they don't have genitals. And while he'd felt this teacher's dick before, felt it right in and hard inside of him, he hadn't seen it, hadn't touched it and played with it, and hadn't had it bobble in his hands.

He ran his hands carefully up and down the length of it, trying not to make it obvious that he knew what Ric liked and what he didn't. Ric even smiled when he accidentally did something he really didn't like, a patient smile like you'd use with a beginner at anything. Randy could feel his chest puffing up, and he was trying to do better for his beloved teacher.

Randy carefully started to try and bring his teacher off. Even if he were still a schoolkid, he'd have done this often enough to himself, goodness knew he had done, and it wasn't like it was that difficult to apply the knowledge, teasing only the minimum amount, because a kid wouldn't, he hadn't, the big finish was what he was there for.

So not slowly, slowly, but quickly, and reasonably effectively, and there it was.

Despite him not having gotten off, he was basking in the afterglow almost as much as Ric was. The advantage of his "youth" was that Ric was looking after the clean-up side of things.

Of course, there was every chance that he was going to be sent back to his corner, but he could live in hope of that not happening.


End file.
